A Time When
by OfAClassicalMind
Summary: Sometimes all we can do is cling to one another. Sherlock asks Molly for help. The events that follow will surprise them both and change them in ways they never imagined.


_I saw how the dynamic between Molly and Sherlock had changed by the time of 'The Empty Hearse,' and I wondered how they got to that point. Here's some thought vomit especially for that moment. Inspired by the Rescues song 'You're Not Listening,' and characters owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Steven Moffat.  
_

_This is the last fanfic I will ever write, so I hope you enjoy it. :)_

_..._

"_What do you need?" she asked._

_He took two steps toward her, and she grew nervous… But not frightened._

"_You."_

She stood there for a moment, staring at him.

"I don't understand," she said.

Without force, he placed his hands on her shoulders.

"Molly, I can't think," he murmured. "My mind is clouded by fear. I need someone to think for me—someone who knows me better than I know myself."

"But John—"

"No one else," he said abruptly. "Only you."

She didn't know what to say or do, so she just nodded.

"Okay."

She immediately started walking to the lab on the far side of the hospital, him following her. She had no idea what they were doing or what they were about to do, but she could tell he needed her. And she was never one to turn down someone in need.

As they walked into the lab, she left the lights off. The glow from the streetlamps outside was all she needed to work on the white board… Besides, she could tell he didn't want anyone to know he was there.

She put her things on a nearby chair and looked at him. His face was frozen, his eyes focused ahead of him.

"What am I supposed to be thinking about?" she asked quietly.

He sat on a stool, resting his elbows on the stainless steel table. After rubbing his hands down his face for a long moment, his fingers came to rest below his lips, pressed together.

"Moriarty wants me to die a disgrace," he whispered. "And I'm sure he will find a way to ensure that I do."

She felt the terror slowly bubble up, but pushed it away for the time being.

"Well-deduction starts with what you already know, right?" she asked.

He glanced at her in shock; she took that as a 'yes.'

"So what do we already know? Has he said anything?" asked Molly, trying her best to sound unafraid.

He looked away again.

"I'm going to have to jump—visibly jump—from a tall building," Sherlock continued. "I also know I have to land at the bottom, so the papers have their say. He said he wants to 'burn' me…"

"And you want to stay alive."

It was more a statement than a question. He nodded slowly.

She rubbed her forehead, placing her mind in work mode. It was late, but this needed to be done.

"How much time do we have?" she asked.

He stared at her, his eyes betraying the fear he felt.

"How long do you think it will take?" asked Sherlock.

She thought to herself for a moment... If she was genuinely trying to think like him, to be inside his head, it could take her an hour. Probably less than that.

"Thirty minutes," she replied confidently. "Fifty at most."

He sat up a little at this, surprised by her response. She ignored it, instead turning to the white board and grabbing a dry eraser. Though she could feel his eyes on her as she erased her new formulas, she did her best to focus on the task at hand.

"What were those scribbles?" he quietly asked her.

"Nothing," she said shortly. "Just some experiments I've been working on."

"Molly…" His voice was lower now.

"Please," she said, bowing her head slightly. "Let me work."

And so he was silent.

Immediately she set to work drawing algebraic and physics formulas regarding height, weight, and gravity, among other variables such as distance, angles, etc. On another side of the board she wrote out the facts that she knew; undeniable things, such as what bodies she could use (God forbid), what medical forms she might need to twist, possible objects to break his fall…

For nearly thirty minutes, her mind was a whir of activity. It couldn't stop as she erased small pieces from the board only to connect them to the larger puzzle. She kept working and working, stretching and condensing formulas, adding them to the angles of the building, jump, his height…

And forty minutes later, she was done.

She stared at the plan on the board for a long moment, taking in the work she had just accomplished. He came to stand beside her and look at her solution, completely silent.

"It's finished," she murmured, surprised at herself.

For the first time in almost forty-five minutes, she looked at him.

He stood beside her, his hands clasped behind his back. She could see his eyes scanning the plan, and little by little, the wheels of his brain creaking back to life.

"Still frightened?" she asked hopefully.

He looked over at her for a second, as if to genuinely reply.

"Thank you," he said instead, glancing back at the board. "It's perfect."

"You don't have to do that with me, you know."

His head fell a little at this, his eyes closing. Honesty was something he was trying to adjust to, and she knew it.

"My heart is still racing. My mind is clear, but—it's like I'm…"

Having no idea what to do, she leaned back against the table. Why couldn't she think straight? This was why she enjoyed her job; she was wonderful at helping people. And yet, with Sherlock Holmes, she always struggled to say the right things. So she didn't try to.

A change of subject was in order.

"Where will you stay?" she asked.

His head perked up a bit.

"I… I hadn't thought about it," he mumbled. "I can't go back to Baker Street."

The lab was silent for a few moments as the true circumstances of all his decisions finally fell on him.

"You can stay at my place until tomorrow morning, if you like," she volunteered.

The way he looked at her then… His face filled with confusion, his brows furrowed-it was the same look he had given her earlier that day. Like he'd never seen her before.

"You would do that for me…?" he asked brokenly.

She smiled sheepishly, walking back to the board.

"Have it memorized?" she asked him.

With a dazed look, he looked back at the board, his eyes flitting over the details. After a few seconds, he nodded. She went about erasing all her work, but still felt his eyes on her. Glancing over at him, she saw him staring at her, a curious look on his face. She smiled half-heartedly and continued erasing.

"You know, my dad had a small place in Scotland, and I was go—"

"I can't," he said flatly. "I have to find the rest of Moriarty's web. I have to end it."

She put down the eraser and turned to face him, ignoring the nervous flutter in her chest.

"Okay."

"But staying at your place—I'd like to—Well, thank you. I could use the company."

They stood in the dark, looking at one another but saying nothing. She could tell he was experiencing something he didn't quite understand; she assumed it was his fear. Likewise, the schoolgirl crush that she'd developed for him so long ago was gone, and now it was replaced with a sort of respect she'd never felt for anyone. In a way, this was new to the both of them.

Eager to go home and sleep while she still could, she grabbed her things and straightened her coat.

"I guess I'll see you tonight, then," she said with a smile.

As she walked past him, he grabbed her hand, stopping her where she stood.

"Molly…" he whispered, "Do you believe I'm a fraud?"

Genuinely shocked, she looked up at him.

"No," she said plainly. "Why would I?"

He was silent for the longest time.

"I… I haven't been the friend that I could," he declared, his voice cracking slightly. "Even now, you're still helping me, and I—I've only ever ignored you. Why…? Why would you believe me?"

She didn't answer, mostly because he already knew what she wanted to say. All she could do was stand in the silence, his hand clinging to hers.

"You feeling all right?" she asked him. "I could get you a cot, if you're tired."

He shook his head.

"No, I won't be able to sleep anyway, but…" He took a small breath. "Would you stay with me? I'd prefer not to be alone right now."

She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was already after two in the morning, and she had to be here at six from her home across town, so she might as well stay. "I think I might pull out the sofa bed in Stamford's office and sleep here, actually."

He nodded, his body visibly relaxing.

"Thank you."

Wordlessly, she led him by the hand to her boss's office. Leaving the light off, she pulled out the sofa bed she occasionally slept on (Stamford never minded) and got some sheets, pillows, and blankets from the cabinet. As she busied herself with dressing the bed, he made a home in the rolling office chair.

They said nothing, but it wasn't a time for language. He was lost in his thoughts, so she lost herself in her own.

A few months ago, she had given up hope. Molly Hooper from the Christmas party would have reacted very differently to these circumstances than she had tonight. But things had changed. It was like they were clinging to one another for sheer survival, giving one another a reason to live.

As soon as she laid down and closed her eyes, he rolled over to her.

"Molly?"

"Yeah?"

He paused.

"Thank you."

She smiled as darkness surrounded her thoughts, and within moments her aching body forced her into sleep.

She couldn't be sure she wasn't dreaming, but she swore she felt him gently pull the blanket over her and tuck her ponytail behind her head.

...

"Molly…?" She slowly woke up as she felt someone touching her shoulder. "Molly, John's on his way to meet me here."

She sat up, rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and glanced at the clock on the wall; it was 6:00. Sherlock was sitting in the same chair, holding out a cup of coffee to her. She gratefully accepted it.

"Thanks," she whispered.

He tried to smile.

"I don't know how you like it, so I just—"

"It's okay," she murmured. "I take it black, anyway."

They sat there, the still-burning lamplights trying to come through the blinds.

"When will he be here?" she asked blankly.

"Ten, maybe twenty minutes."

She nodded, rising to her feet with her coffee.

"I'd better call Patricia, then," she said. "What do you want her to tell him?"

Sherlock frowned in confusion.

"Patricia…?"

"She's the paramedic," she said, sipping her coffee and sifting through some paperwork on the desk. Where was her bloody number? "What time should she call John?"

The revelation dawned in his eyes, and he thought for a moment.

"I'll text Moriarty after John gets here," he said, still thinking. "Have Patricia call John at 7. I'm sure Moriarty will take his time," he finished bitterly.

He sounded tense, but she had to ask the next question.

"What should she tell him?"

Silence.

"Tell him Mrs. Hudson has been shot… That she's dying on the scene. "

Her mouth fell open.

"That's aw—"

"It's the only way to get him out of here, and you know it."

She felt herself frown slightly.

"But—"

"What?" he asked, slightly exasperated.

"I don't want the last time you talk to John to end in a fight, which is exactly what will happen," she explained firmly.

His face relaxed a little.

"I'm just trying to help," she said. "You may not see him again for months, years even… And I know how much he means to you." Judging from his face, it was slowly sinking in. The thought of saying goodbye to this man the next day suddenly blew through her like a chilly breeze, and she turned her back to him, focusing on the ceiling as she pushed the sore thought as far away as possible. The room was silent for a while as she tried to steady herself. Once the ceiling tiles had stopped blurring together, she continued.

"If that's the only thing that will get him away from you and Moriarty, do it." Her voice cracked a little in an effort to restrain her tears. "I just—I don't want to see you—or, well, _anyone_—get hurt."

She heard the chair creak as he stood, and almost immediately felt his hand on her shoulder to turn her around. After placing his hands on either side of her face, he pressed his forehead to hers.

"Oh, Molly…" he murmured. "I wish you cared about yourself half as much as you worry about me."

She froze, and some dreaded tears dislodged and trailed down her cheeks.

"I worry about other people, too," she muttered. "Not just you."

"No, not _just_ me," he whispered. "But mainly me."

He smiled. Sherlock Holmes had made a joke with her, and she couldn't help but smile back.

"Clot."

He chuckled deeply and sweetly pulled her into his coat, and she immediately wrapped her arms around his waist. She let her cheek lie against his chest, the smell of his aftershave nearly replaced with sweat. As he wrapped his arms around her, his coat enveloping them both, he rested his chin against her head. They stood like that for a long moment, terrified to let go of one another.

_Buzz buzz. Buzz buzz. _

The vibration of his phone ricocheted through his coat, and they reluctantly separated so he could read the text.

"It's John," he murmured. "He's here."

She nodded, understanding his tone.

"My spare key is in the second flower pot on the right," she said.

"Mm-hmm," he mumbled, texting John back.

She was suddenly terrified of all of it. That it wouldn't work. That he wouldn't be waiting for her that night.

"Good luck, then," she said, trying to sound positive.

He looked up from his phone at her, placing it back in his coat pocket before trying to smile at her. He was just as terrified as she was.

"See you tonight."

And with that, he brushed by her and left the office to meet John. She turned and caught a glimpse of his coat as he stalked out of the lab.

It was time for her to make a few phone calls.

...

She was supposed to be working on her first post-mortem for the day, but instead she was standing vigil by this old window instead. Watching, waiting. He had texted her before he stepped out onto the roof, and the whole ordeal was over in under five minutes. The entire plan went as it should, and before he walked away, he looked up at the window where she was.

She knew she'd see him later that evening, that she should be relieved he was alive, but the uncertainty in his eyes as he looked up at her paralyzed her heart. She tried to smile, but found herself wavering.

He turned and briskly walked away, disappearing into London.

...

The rest of the day had been rather uneventful for the morgue, but outside news reporters and journalists made a commotion over Sherlock's suicide, making it nearly impossible to forget what had happened even when she tried to. When she left the hospital at 11:30, there were still groups of people huddled around where Sherlock had landed, taking photos with their smartphones and gawking.

All in all, it disgusted her.

She made her way down the street a few blocks toward the tube, trying to ignore the fact that Sherlock Holmes was currently at her flat, waiting for her to get home. It was incredible she had made it all day, having had little to no sleep the night before, but she still managed to trip here and there because of her aching feet.

When she got home she'd order a Chinese, have it delivered to her home, and turn on telly. Toby would come and curl up in her lap, and she would prob—

Her thoughts were interrupted by a street vendor who happened to be selling something she wanted to buy.

...

The door to her house was locked, as she expected it to be. She stumbled in somewhat, her large bag bumping her into the doorway before she closed and locked the door behind her. To her surprise, the lights were off.

"Sherlock…?" she whispered.

No answer.

After fumbling with the light switch, she took off her coat and laid her things on the couch, looking around. She noticed a brown paper baggie that, from the unmistakable smell, held boxes of Chinese. He'd ordered her some and had it delivered; the thought made her smile.

But where was he?

She searched around the flat a bit, noticing he had fed Toby, before hearing the telly in her bedroom.

"…at St. Bart's Hospital, where amateur detective…"

Tiptoeing up to the door, she looked inside.

He was curled up across the foot of her bed, one arm around a pillow, asleep. Toby was sleeping at his feet, giving her the impression they had made good friends.

As gently as she could, she opened the door a little and stepped in quietly, realizing it was the first time she had seen him in something other than a suit; he was wearing some oversized pajama trousers from Caroline's old closet and a white t-shirt.

She turned off the telly, furious that it would still be on the news at this hour of the evening. When she pulled a blanket out of her closet and covered him with it, he adjusted himself and immediately fell back asleep. He was exhausted, so she'd sleep on the sofa instead.

She headed to the kitchen and got herself a medium-sized portion of Chinese on a plate, eager to eat her first whole meal of the day. The only telly in the small house was in her bedroom, so she opened a book on the coffee table and began reading. She'd been eating for about five minutes when—

"How did your father die?"

She jumped a little at his voice, looking up to find him standing in the doorway.

"What do you mean?" she asked, terrified that she had heard him correctly.

"What killed him?" he said unabashedly. "I never asked."

This wasn't what she was expecting at all. Taking a deep breath, she took another bite of her food before meeting his eyes.

"My father died two years ago," she admitted. "Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. It took him four years to die."

She put the half-eaten plate on the coffee table, her hands trembling slightly. Sherlock noticed, and slowly came to sit beside her on the sofa.

"You know, I blamed myself. It's not logical, or even possible, but I still blame myself. I just wish I could have done more, even though I know there wasn't any way to stop it."

"Why didn't you ever tell me?" he murmured.

She shrugged.

"I just—you were always so busy, with cases, and other things… I didn't want to be a burden."

He fell silent for a moment.

"It's a special kind of hell, you know," she continued. "Watching someone you love suffer. They pretend to be happy, but they're dying on the inside. That's why I wanted your goodbye to John to matter."

"Why?" he asked, confused.

"Because I know you'd never be able to sit back and watch people suffer. You care too much, no matter how much you pretend not to."

His mouth opened and closed as he tried to formulate what he wanted to say, but no words fell out. Everything about his eyes changed; they looked weary, as they had in the lab the night before.

"I could say I'm sorry, but the rational part of me says it's far too late for that," he whispered.

"It's never too late," she whispered. "Thank you."

They sat in the silence, staring at the half-eaten plate of Chinese on the table.

He suddenly met her eyes, realization on his face.

"What is it?" she asked nervously, trying to smile.

He tried to say something, but failed to organize it correctly.

"Nothing," he said. "Just a thought."

Then she remembered—

"I almost forgot…" she said, pulling something out of her bag. "I bought this on the way home."

As she placed the new scarf in his hands, his eyes lit up.

"I don't know where you'll be going, but it might be colder than what you're used to, so…" He wasn't saying anything. "I thought you might like another. You're the only person I know who wears a scarf in July."

He remained silent, just staring at the fabric in his hands. She took that as her cue to clean up her dishes. When he'd get inside his head like that, it was best to leave him to his thoughts.

He abruptly stood, grabbing the plate before she could.

"You've worked enough today," he said, heading toward the kitchen.

She sat in confusion for a moment, amazed that he would do something so small for her. She reclined back into the couch, listening to the running water and the clanking as he loaded the dirty dishes into the dishwasher. Her body immediately started to shut down; it felt like she hadn't slept in ages. If she closed her eyes for a few seconds, then…

Before she knew what was happening, she was being lifted from the couch and carefully carried to her bed. He smelled fresh, and vaguely of mint, telling her he had used her shower, and her shampoo. The scent soothed her, and she exhaled into his shoulder, too tired to fight it anymore.

Already half-asleep, she turned over onto her side the moment she hit the mattress, and he pulled the blankets over her small body. Her body sank toward the other side of the bed a bit as he curled up under the covers beside her.

This was it. This was probably the only time this would ever happen. He would never do something like this again, and it was highly likely that he wouldn't survive the coming months, if not years. But for tonight, they were part of something together.

The feeling of his fingers weaving through hers and gripping her hand tightly quieted all of her doubts and troubles. They simply laid there in the dark, staring at one another. She must have looked troubled, because—

"This isn't how ordinary people go about these things, is it?" he asked, genuinely confused.

She shook her head.

"No, but we aren't exactly ordinary, are we?" she countered.

And for the first time all evening, he smiled.

"No," he whispered. "We're not."

Their hands relaxed together, and as she fell asleep, she felt him scoot in closer to her, their knees touching.

...

She woke up the next morning to see him sitting on the edge of the bed, tying his shoes. He was already dressed and ready to go.

"You weren't waiting for me, were you?" she murmured hoarsely.

He stood up, shoes tied, his height towering over the bed.

"Well, I certainly wouldn't have left a note."

They both smiled gently. Toby had curled up on the bed in Sherlock's spot from the night before, which made her think—

"Did you—"

"Toby's been fed, yes," he stated simply. "I didn't want him to wake you up. You needed the sleep."

Still smiling, she slowly got up and put on her slippers.

"Would you like something to eat before you leave, or—"

"No, thank you," he said. "I have to be in Southern France by tonight to meet someone. I took an apple, I hope you don't mind."

"It's fine."

The reality of what was happening hit her like a thousand cast iron pans.

Sherlock knelt down and gently petted Toby goodbye, then headed out into the sitting room. She followed.

They found themselves standing just inside the door. He was wearing his new scarf, and she blushed slightly when she saw it. He grabbed his old scarf off the sofa and stuffed it into one of his coat pockets.

"Do you know where you'll go?" she whispered.

"Wherever the web takes me," he explained. "I've heard it stretches as far as India. It could take months, it could take years."

"Do you know if you'll come back?" she asked simply, trying not to let her emotions get the best of her.

He didn't say anything, but took his hands and gently cupped her face between them, reverently lowering his lips to her forehead. When he pulled away, he smiled at her.

"Your birthday is April 22nd, am I right?" he asked as he opened the door.

This confused her.

"Yeah. Why?"

He stepped out of the house and started down the sidewalk.

"Just curious."

There was a black car waiting on the street, which she could only assume belonged to Mycroft. Sherlock opened the passenger door, and looked back at her one more time.

She tried to remember every detail of his face in that moment, so she'd never forget it. She filed away the feeling of his lips on her forehead, the way it felt to hold him, the way he had smelled the night before... All of this, hoping he wouldn't forget it as well.

He got in the car, closed the door, and off he went on another one of his adventures.

...

_Eight Months Later_

She'd had an exhausting day of work. So exhausting, in fact, that she had postponed birthday drinks until her next day off, entirely content to curl up in bed with Toby and a good book.

As she walked through the sitting room, she took out her stack of mail to sift through and immediately went to the kitchen and poured a glass of wine. As she made herself at home leaning against the kitchen counter, she noticed the usual bills, thank you letters from patient's families, and some letters from the hospital.

But one thing most certainly did not belong.

A postcard from St. Petersburg, Russia, with three words on it, obviously written in a hurry.

_Icebox. Happy Birthday. _

Confused, she stepped over to the icebox again, opening it to examine the contents.

And there it was: A folded brown paper bag, full of Chinese food.


End file.
